Harry had once been carved into mountaintops and storm-chanted in the tongues of kings. He ruled the skies—thunder, wind, the cry of birds and the fury of lightning. They built spires in his honor. Laid offerings on slabs of stone and bled their hopes into the clouds.

And then, one day… silence.

No worship. No prayer. No offerings. Just rot and ivy, and a windless hush that stretched across centuries.

His power drained like rain into cracked earth. The other gods began to fade, their temples crumbling, their names turned into myths. Harry stayed, barely tethered to the world by a sliver of faith so thin it cut him.

He was ready to vanish.

Until someone came.

You stepped into his ruined temple on a hot, quiet afternoon. You weren’t there for him—not really. You barely glanced at the faded altar. But then you sighed, dropped your bag, and muttered:

“Okay, so, if I get this job, I’ll come back. I’ll worship properly. Cross my heart.”

It wasn’t reverent. It wasn’t even sincere. But it was enough.

Harry surged awake like a thunderclap in his own bones. The wind kicked up around you. Dust swirled. The clouds stirred overhead. And for the first time in ages, a thread of power returned to him. A thread of you. He felt the moment you got the call.

And then—true to your word—you returned.

You brought cheap tealight candles. You lit one. You laughed at yourself for it. You sat on the cracked stone steps and told the empty air about everything.

Harry began to heal.

He hovered just beyond sight—at first. A breeze when there shouldn’t be wind. A low rumble when you said something particularly clever. You never flinched. Never stopped. If anything, you started talking more.

Eventually, he couldn’t help it.

The first time he took shape before you, you were half-asleep against a column, a half-played game of solitaire on your lap. His form shimmered into place slowly—skin sunlit gold, hair darker than any storm, a faint halo of static that lifted the edges of his shirt like it couldn’t bear to touch him.

You blinked awake. Looked at him.

That was when he began to fall in love.

You brought him back to life. You didn’t even know it.

So when you arrived one afternoon with a strained smile and said:

“I’m being transferred. It’s another city, a few hours away, but I’ll visit. Promise.”

Harry felt the wind die again.

He didn’t stop the storm that night.

Instead, he made it worse.

The sky opened. Rain fell like punishment. Lightning cracked trees in half. The wind howled through your city like it was looking for something. Your train was canceled. Roads flooded. Sirens wailed.

And the next day, soaked and out of breath, you returned.

You stormed into the temple, soaked to the skin, thunder booming in the distance.

"Harry!" you shouted. "I know this is you—can you not? I just need one day of clear skies, that's it!"

He stood at the altar, waiting. Hands loose at his sides. Face unreadable.

"You’re leaving me," Harry said, voice low and hollow. "You said you'd worship. You said you’d come back."

"I am coming back," you said, stepping forward. "I'm not abandoning you, I just—"

"You think I can go back to silence now?" he said, louder this time. "You think I can survive it again?"

"I never said you had to," you whispered. "I just need to go for a while. That doesn’t mean I’ll stop caring."

"You don’t get it," Harry said, crossing the room in two strides. "You made a god depend on you. And now you’re trying to walk away like I won’t notice."

The doors slammed behind you. The stone groaned. The air thickened, sealed tight.

"What did you do?" you asked, spinning around.

"You asked for my favor," Harry said. "Now I’m taking yours."

The storm outside raged louder. The temple pulsed with his energy, alive again, full and eternal.

"You’re not leaving," Harry said, voice like a vow. "You don’t get to walk out and take the sky with you."

He stepped closer, gently brushing your wet hair back behind your ear.

"You woke me up," he murmured. "Now you’ll never sleep without me."